Armistice
by Jamie552
Summary: "Cease-fire; truce." There was only one person that Sam knew and trusted well enough to bring in to this part of his life, and he hadn't talked to him in almost a year. He had to call. He had to ask. Pre-series.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **I truly can't believe that its been 3 years since I last wrote for this fandom, that's ridiculous. I've had absolutely no muse for such a long time and a while ago I forced myself to sit down and attempt to write something. This idea came to me and thankfully I've been able to get chapters written. To everyone that has favorited and reviewed my stories over the last little while, thank you so much! Your reviews and continued support helped me get back in the saddle. I hope you like this one :)

This is pre-series. In the Pilot, Dean says he hasn't bothered Sam in almost 2 years. This is my take on why. It's gonna be a couple of chapters long and I'm planning to update soon.

**Disclaimer:** I've just taken a quick look around and there are no Winchester brothers wandering aimlessly around my apartment, so, I guess that means I don't own them. Please don't sue! Just playing in the sandbox.

* * *

"So you'll see up on the screen that there are two definitions of the word _fool_. Particularly the second one will be most relevant this afternoon, but the first is also relevant. In early modern England, the world in which we all live was often imagined not as a patch of grand, or as a huge globe, but as something like what I'm standing on now; a platform stage on which each human being must, for a limited time, perform his or her part—comic, tragic, or both. Sir Walter Raleigh summed up this idea neatly in the final lines of his best known poem, in which he compares the life of man to a performance of a play. _'Thus much we play in to our latest rest…only we die in earnest, that's no jest.'_ Whatever other parts we may play in the course of our lives, all of us, at one time or another, have played the fool…"

The bones in his hand were aching and Sam dropped his pen to the surface of his desk. His well-used copy of _Shakespeare's Collected Works_ was sitting open on his desk, full of highlighted passages and his own notes in the margins.

He'd been sitting in that chair for going on two hours and even though the class was interesting enough, Professor Harding being one of his favorite instructors that semester, he was getting desperate to stand up and stretch his legs.

The thrilling life of a second-year student at Stanford University.

He nearly jumped out of his chair when someone practically threw themselves into the seat beside him, a familiar chuckle reaching his ears.

All Sam could do was shake his head, glancing over at his somewhat hapless roommate. "You're unbelievable, man, y'know that?"

"What? Why?"

Sam simply waved a hand at him dismissively and settled further into his chair, letting out a long breath. After a moment Chris leaned close and lowered his voice. "So what'd I miss?"

"Shakespeare's fools."

"She skipped ahead in the syllabus again."

Sam opened his mouth to respond when a loud voice beat him to it. "Mr. Winchester? Mr. Burnett?" The both of them directed their eyes to the front of the room where a very unimpressed Professor Harding was staring at them from her place at the podium. Her eyes shifting to rest solely on Sam, she said, "Mr. Winchester…could you please give us a quotation from Isaac Asimov that relates to today's topic?"

Sam could feel every set of eyes in the crowded lecture hall boring into either his back or his forehead and he swallowed hard, remembering why he hated being the center of attention—no, it was _another_ Winchester that preferred the spotlight. He tried his best to push those thoughts, those memories, from his mind; an old leather jacket, biker boots, and spiky dirty-blonde hair…affectionate name-calling and an occasional Southern twang.

He suddenly remembered where he was. _Quotation from Isaac Asimov on Shakespeare's fools_?

It took him only a couple of seconds and once he had it in his mind, he didn't hesitate. _"That, of course, is the great secret of the successful fool—that he is no fool at all."_

Harding nodded her head. "What published work is that quotation from?"

"Asimov's _Guide To Shakespeare_."

"Published in?"

"1970."

"Explain how the quotation is relevant."

"Shakespearean fools—usually peasants or common-folk—use their cleverness and their wit to outsmart or manipulate people of nobility…of a higher social standing." Sam felt himself smile slightly. "Often times, they're the most intelligent characters in the play."

Despite the fact that she was annoyed, it was obvious that Harding was impressed. She watched him for a moment before nodding her head and saying, "Very good. If you and Mr. Burnett could please pay attention from now on?"

Sam nodded, wiping the smile from his face. "Yes, ma'am."

Nearly half an hour later, as Sam fought his way through the large crowd scrambling to make it out of the lecture hall and into the hallway, Chris appeared beside him, "Seriously, dude."

"What?"

"_Asimov's Guide To Shakespeare_? Why don't you just skip the next two years, fast-track your degree, and go right to teaching." Chris laughed. "You've read the textbooks already, haven't you?"

"Well, not _all_ of them." Sam couldn't help but laugh as well, the two falling into step beside each other as they navigated the busy corridors. "I hate to break it to you, Chris, but you're at school. You know, _higher education_?"

Chris simply waved a hand at him dismissively.

"Thought you said you weren't gonna miss that class anymore?"

"Technically, I didn't _miss_ it."

"Oh yeah, you were there a whole thirty minutes. Bring on the final."

They followed the crowd out of the building and into the bright California sunshine, Sam instantly taking a deep breath, loving the feeling of the heat on his face. After having been crammed in the busy lecture hall for most of the morning it was a relief being outside again.

Chris continued nattering away as they walked up the sidewalk of O'Conner Lane in the general direction of the campus bookstore, where Sam knew without a doubt he'd find his favorite curly-haired blonde sitting in the café with a coffee and a pile of homework.

It was their usual routine for Thursday afternoons—Sam would attend English class, then he and Chris would make their way to the bookstore together where Jess would be waiting for them; able to remind him with one cheerful smile why he was there in the first place.

It was his favorite day of the week.

The bookstore was busy as they made their way inside, Sam taking a second to throw a wave to the girl behind the cash that he knew from his Political Science class.

The store smelled of paper and ink and Sam had to resist the urge to browse the shelves, instead heading towards the tall staircase in the back that led to the upstairs café. The smell of books was instantly replaced with the smell of coffee and pastries at the top of the steps and Chris headed towards the barista as Sam made a beeline for Jess, who was sitting quietly at a table in the back.

She was so caught up in her reading that he was able to approach her unnoticed, and he couldn't help but grin at her girly shriek as he leaned down and placed a loud smacking kiss in her hair. "Still studying, huh?"

She smiled at him as he sat down beside her, letting his backpack fall to the floor with a dull thud. "Always."

"How long you been here?"

She shrugged, sticking a pencil between her teeth as she flipped through the pages of her book. "Couple hours."

"How's it going?"

"Slow." After a moment she pulled the pencil from her mouth, setting it down beside her notebook. "I don't know how much more my brain can take."

He studied her for a second before moving himself closer, ignoring the sound of the legs of his chair scraping across the tiled floor. "Maybe take it easy for a bit," he suggested gently, quietly, so no one else would hear. "You've been working hard lately. Give yourself a break."

She let out a groan and let her head fall to the surface of the table with a thump.

Sam chuckled and reached a hand over, running his fingers through her hair. "Seriously, you don't wanna be getting sick."

A large mug of coffee suddenly appeared on the table in front of him and Sam looked up, watching as Chris took a seat in the third chair at the table; all the while nursing a large coffee of his own. He nodded towards Jess. "She even awake?"

She raised her head and sent him a scowl.

He simply grinned at her and motioned to her mug. "Need a refill, sunshine?"

Jess didn't say anything. She just kept on scowling.

Chris seemed to take her lack of response as an affirmative and grabbed her mug, standing from his chair and heading back towards the counter.

Sam watched him go and shook his head, looking back towards Jess. "Look, I think we both need a break. Why don't you call Katie and cancel study group…_I'll _call Matt and bail on _my_ study group. We'll pop some corn and watch a movie."

Jess opened her mouth to respond when Chris appeared again, setting the now full mug back down in front of Jess. He plonked into his chair, saying, "You know…I think I have tuberculosis."

That did it.

The pure randomness of the comment broke through Jess' stress and she laughed, a truly mesmerizing sound that had both men smiling too. She said, "Well, if you _do_ have it they're going to stick you in a bubble."

"I'd walk on water if I was in a bubble."

"No, you'd sink."

Chris actually looked offended. "Is that a fat joke?"

"No, it's a physics joke."

Sam couldn't help it. He started laughing.

* * *

The sun set over Palo Alto shortly before eight o'clock and within minutes of returning to the small (and somewhat run-down) bungalow he shared with Chris just off the Stanford campus, Sam was in his room, lounging on his bed completely surrounded by textbooks.

But he couldn't concentrate.

The news had spread like wildfire making it next to impossible to wander the streets and ride the buses without hearing about it—not to mention the countless police cars and ambulances, followed shortly by vans from the coroner's office, that had rolled in with lights and sirens blaring.

It had been the fourth suicide in less than two months and people around the campus were starting to worry.

Every student knew the pressure that surrounded midterms. It was common to see an increase in people at the local bars and clubs, the number of people with headaches or varying degrees of insomnia…the girls who would start crying in between classes and the guys with tempers on shorter fuses than usual. They were ailments that all college students dealt with at one point or another, Sam knew from personal experience.

But in the year and a half he'd been there, it was the first time he'd heard of a student taking their own life. Let alone _four_.

The first one he'd let slide as a horrible and unnecessary tragedy.

The second one was just as horrible and unnecessary…but had made him raise an eyebrow.

The third one had pulled old curiosities and behaviours out of the box he'd buried them in.

The fourth one had happened in the early hours of that very afternoon, when he, Jess, and Chris had been leaving the bookstore café. He didn't yet know the details of the most recent death, but he'd begun researching the history of the frat house that evening.

_Old habits die hard._

According to his research, the Theta Delta Theta had first been founded in 1862 in New York State, and it hadn't taken long for other charges to spring up over the years that followed—University of Michigan in 1889, Berkeley in 1900, followed by Stanford in 1903, and eventually the University of Toronto in 1912.

The fraternity had a stellar reputation, seeming to stay away from what most people considered to be harsh hazing practices—water intoxication, paddling, alcohol poisoning, drug use …even instances where pledges had been forced to strip down to nakedness and have their bodies critiqued by older students.

Hazing, while not illegal in the state of California, was generally _frowned upon_ and most colleges within the United States did what they could to curb the practice…especially once the bodies had started piling up. There were several cases nationwide where students had fallen victim to hazing pranks gone wrong, and when Sam had finally stumbled across Stanford's only hazing related death, it took less than a second and a half to come to the conclusion that there was a case on the university's campus.

In the fall of 1985, a freshman at Stanford—Adam Belanger—had decided to pledge Theta Delta Theta. Unbeknownst to the majority of the fraternity, a few of the older frat brothers had taken Belanger and challenged him to a haze known as "Raw Liver, No Teeth"; the goal being to swallow large pieces of raw liver that had been soaked in oil _without_ chewing. Belanger had started to choke, and afraid of being arrested for their involvement, the older students had left him in the basement of the frat house…but not before removing the piece of liver from Belanger's windpipe and tying a rope around his neck. His body had been found by a janitor the following morning and while the authorities had first believed it to be a suicide, the frat brothers had eventually confessed, throwing the Stanford campus, we well as others across the country, into complete chaos.

The house of Theta Delta Theta hadn't changed much over the decades, according to Stanford records anyway, and there was no doubt in Sam's mind that the suicides that had taken place within the house over those few months were somehow related.

He was pulled out of his reverie by a light knock on his bedroom door and Sam looked up from the reading he _hadn't_ been doing. "Door's open."

Chris stuck his head in and said, "Jess just called, asked me to tell you that Kate guilt-tripped her. Movie night is cancelled."

"Yeah, I figured it would be." Sam snapped the book closed and let out a breath, resting back against the headboard of his bed—Chris, who had a towel draped across the back of his neck, took a seat at Sam's desk. "How was practice?"

He shrugged and after a second, instead of answering the question, asked, "You hear about what happened over at Theta house?"

"Yeah, on the way home. Who was it?"

"A sophomore, Jake Newman. He was here on an athletic scholarship. Cardinal football." All Sam could do was shake his head as Chris continued, "He didn't go to class this morning, football coach said he missed practice in the afternoon. They found him in the basement." He breathed a laugh with absolutely no humor in it. "What the hell's goin' on over there, dude?"

Sam didn't know what to say so he settled for a simple, "I don't know."

"I mean, it's messed up, right?"

"The university say anything yet?"

"Tomorrow's classes have been cancelled, they wanna give students a break after what happened. The rest of the Theta brothers are being moved out of the house until things cool down…some hotel off campus."

"Should be an interesting weekend."

Chris sighed. "Anyway, what are you gonna do? Sit in here and _pretend_ to get reading done?"

"I dunno." Sam smiled lightly and shrugged a shoulder. "I got stood up. No real plans."

"Well I think there's some basketball on. I'm not as pretty as Jess but I'll be your date." The two of them laughed, Chris wheeling around cheerfully on Sam's chair. "You play your cards right, I might even put out."

"You're that easy?"

Chris made a face, as if to say '_well...yeah'._

Sam watched as he stood from the chair and headed back towards the door, saying, "Meet you on the sofa in ten."

"I'll be there."

And as Chris pulled the door closed gently behind him, Sam came to several conclusions.

One, there was a case on the Stanford campus—his instincts and training told him so and they were still top notch, even if they _were_ a tad rusty.

Two, once the surviving Theta brothers moved back into the house the 'suicides' were bound to continue.

Three, Sam didn't know if he had it in him to tackle the situation on his own. He knew that he didn't have the tools necessary to get it done; taking on a case with nothing but a bag of rock salt was out of the question. Not to mention it'd been a year and a half since he'd last hunted for anything other than a bag of chips in their kitchen cupboards.

And four? There was only one person that Sam knew, and trusted, well enough to bring into this part of his life. And he hadn't talked to him in almost a year.

He had to call. Had to ask.

_Dean._

* * *

After sleeping on it, Sam decided that it would be best to wait until after Chris left for baseball practice the following afternoon before making the attempt…before dialling the number he still had memorized, even after all the time that had passed.

His stomach was rolling, his palms were sweating. Even in the days leading up to final exams the year before his nerves hadn't been as bad as they were at that moment. They were raw and exposed. It was almost too much.

866-513…

He hung up and tried to force himself to take a deep breath and just _calm down._

866-513-38…

He hung up again.

_Come on, Sam, get a grip._

866-513-3815.

And before he knew it, it was ringing. There was no going back, he was committed…no more stalling or putting it off.

"_Yeah."_

Dean answered, his voice somewhat rough…Sam very nearly threw up.

At first, Sam said nothing. He couldn't. He just sat and listened to the sound of the Impala's engine in the background, the sound of the relentless flow of air that was blasting in through one of the car's open windows…the sound of his brother's even breathing, audible even over the phone.

He'd missed those sounds.

"_Who the hell is this?"_

Sam's tongue may have temporarily snapped off its roller but Dean wasn't having it. Sam could hear his brother's anger building and forced himself to speak. "Dean. Hey." He hated the sound of his own voice, how _shy_ he sounded, how his words had a slight shake to them. The mood of the call changed immediately; it was charged, emotional…overwhelming. For some reason not even known to him, Sam felt the somewhat pathetic need to clarify even further. "It's, uh, it's me. It's Sam."

He was waiting for a typical Dean response to such a ridiculous declaration of his own identity—maybe a _'no shit, sherlock'_ or an overly sarcastic laugh that would hit the younger man right in the solar plexus.

Instead, what he got was…

"_Sam."_

He couldn't help but swallow hard.

It was the first time he'd heard his brother speak his name in a year.

And as easily as that he felt like a kid again. A kid that had just been reminded, rather forcefully, that his big brother was in fact _out there_ and there had been no communication between them. A kid that was being thrown headfirst into memories of his childhood—years spent with a brother four years older, in love with classic rock and old leather…a brother with a voice that still brought him peace, even though he had been trying to convince himself for two years that he didn't need it anymore.

There was no real inflection in Dean's voice, no obvious undercurrent of anything; there was no emotion, no surprise, no relief. There was just stone cold indifference.

"Yeah. Hey Dean."

"_You uh…dial the wrong number?"_

Sam swallowed hard again. "Oh, no. I'm uh…I'm just glad that I have the right one. I didn't know if you would've changed it or not."

"_Haven't changed it in three years."_

And there it was.

A very specific emotion was noticeably working its way into Dean's voice and Sam tried to ignore it, tried to rely on courage he wasn't really feeling. He stood from his perch on the arm of the couch and started pacing, needing to do something to get rid of his energy. "Yeah, y'know, I just…wasn't sure." _Oh geez._ "So uh…how are you?"

Dean snorted. "_Livin' the dream. What do you want, Sam?"_

Sam cringed, furious with himself.

Dean wasn't one for pleasantries or small talk on a good day, and based on their complete lack of communication since Sam had left, it was as far from a good day as they could ever possibly get.

_Goddammit._

"I don't know if you've seen it or not, y'know, on the news. But uh…there have been some deaths here over the last couple months. Something's just—Dean, I think there's something here for you."

"_For me?"_ Dean fell silent and Sam found himself wondering if maybe the cell connection had been lost. Then, "_Wait, like a supernatural something? Like a hunt?"_

Taking a quick glance at the front door, worried that maybe Chris would come strolling through it unexpectedly, Sam said, "The deaths are weird. Four guys from the same fraternity."

"_Ok?"_ Dean spoke slowly, uncertainly, as if he was waiting for Sam to make some sort of intelligent connection between the deaths and why he should give a crap. _"So…what?"_

"I've already looked into the history of the frat house and—"

"_You did research? Seriously?"_

Sam fought to hold in a sigh, hearing the sarcasm...the skepticism...in Dean's words. "Yeah, I did. What's wrong with that?"

"_No nothin', I just remember you sayin' that you'd never do research for a job again. That you'd rather die first_." Dean snorted again, somewhat scathingly. _"Funny, you don't sound all that dead to me."_

_I've been dead to you for two years._

The words passed through Sam's mind and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep them from coming out. "These are people I know, Dean. This is my school. It's a little different than _Mr. and Mrs. Stranger_ out in no-wheres-ville."

"_Yeah, whatever. Look, man, if you've done the research, then handle it. What do you need me for?"_

Sam simply blinked. "Are you serious?"

"_You're all grown up, aren't you? If it's a spirit, deal with it."_

There was now _no_ mistaking the tone of Dean's voice—a definite sound of '_whatever'_ tinged with boredom—and Sam tried to ignore how much it hurt.

The analytical part of his brain told him that he didn't _need _or _want_ Dean's concern. There had been unanswered and unreturned phone calls on both sides, making both brothers equally responsible for how much their relationship had disintegrated over those two years. He had just as much right to be angry as Dean did. Sam may have left? But Dean had _stayed_. Dean had backed their dad. Dean hadn't come to his defence once during the final argument that had served as the last straw for two of the three Winchesters. _Dean_ had said nothing at all.

But the part of his brain with his emotions, his heart, was telling him that in the end he wasn't _deserving_ of his brother's concern. He, after all, had been the first one to ignore the phone when Dean's number had appeared on the call display. He had been so focused on getting away from 'the life' that he hadn't stopped to think of what his actions were doing to his best friend, his protector…his big brother.

And more than anything else, his heart was telling him that his brother's lack of concern _did_ hurt, more than he'd ever admit out loud.

Sam cleared his throat, honestly and truly feeling two feet tall.

Only Dean was able to make him feel that way.

"Look, Dean—" he cleared his throat again. "I _know_ that something is going on here. I've looked into it, I think I know the source…and I need your help."

After a minute that felt more like an eternity Dean let out a sigh and Sam could picture him in the car perfectly in his mind's eye—his left elbow resting on the driver's door, his cell phone pressed to his ear…his right hand holding onto the steering wheel loosely, comfortably.

Sam found himself wondering just how much Dean had changed over those two years, and at the same time, found himself _hoping_ that he hadn't changed at all.

"_You're really serious about this, huh? Wantin' my help?"_

Sam nodded, even though Dean couldn't see it. "Yeah, I am."

"'_Cause I don't want you resentin' me for it later."_

_Yeah. Ouch._

"I won't."

Dean let out another sigh and Sam could practically hear the wheels turning, could practically hear the particulars of the situation fall into place in his brother's mind. Dean's silences may be silent…but they were never really _silent_.

He was weighing the risks, thinking it all through.

Sam tried not to think about a time in the past when he'd call and Dean would come running, no questions asked.

Those days were long gone.

"_Yeah, ok—"_ At Dean's acquiescence, Sam let his head fall back and he took a deep breath; the older man seemed oblivious and continued, "_I'm just outside of Richardson and last I heard from dad he was somewhere in Nebraska, so—"_

Sam's head snapped up, "No, wait, Dean…no—just you, ok? I just want you here."

"_What?"_

"Just you, Dean. I don't want dad here, don't tell him."

"_Sam, then what…" _The older man breathed a bitter laugh. "_I don't—"_

Sam couldn't help but let his eyes fall closed, feeling so frustrated that he almost couldn't stand it. Never would he ever have imagined that talking to Dean, his big brother, would be so goddamn _hard_.

It had never been difficult before, the two of them. They'd perfected their silence at an incredibly young age, they'd been able to talk without talking. But once again, those days were long gone.

"_Sam—"_

"I don't wanna see him, Dean…and you know he won't wanna come here." He opened his eyes, looking down at the carpeted floor. "Just you, ok?"

"_I'm supposed to be meetin' him in St. Louis in a couple days, Sam. I can't just bail, I gotta tell him something."_

"Then make something up. Tell him you've found another job, tell him you're makin' a pit-stop for a beer and a brunette. I don't care, just don't tell him you're coming _here_."

"_You still make it sound so easy, y'know that?"_

"You lie all the time, Dean. This should be no different."

It was a cheap shot and the moment the words were out of his mouth, Sam knew it.

In his mind's eye he could see Dean's reaction; the tension in his jaw, his usually mischievous-filled hazel eyes going flat…his fingers tightening around the plastic of the steering wheel.

It was almost tangible.

"Look, Dean, I didn't mean it like that. I just—" he stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath and trying to calm his nerves. "Just…don't tell him. Ok?"

Dean remained silent for such a long time that Sam was preparing for him to finally say _'go screw yourself'_. But nothing like that came. All there was was another sigh and a ferociously irritated sounding, "_Yeah, Sam. Fine."_

* * *

Before hanging up Dean had told him that the drive from Texas would take _at_ _least_ twenty hours, adding on an additional _four_ hours for him to stop and get some sleep. That put him and the Impala into Palo Alto short before ten the following night.

That gave Sam just over twenty-four hours to _Dean-proof_ his surroundings.

Namely, trying to find a way to explain to his politely bewildered roommate that the older brother that Sam had only mentioned maybe _twice_ in the two years they'd known each other was going to be gate-crashing and staying with them for the next several days.

Aaaand…_there_ were his raw nerves again.

He only hoped to God that Dean and Chris got along.

It was close to seven thirty when Chris eventually stumbled through the door with a baseball bat in one hand and a heavy duffle in the other, and Sam knew he couldn't waste any time.

Chris kicked the front door closed and let his duffle fall to the carpeted floor with a resoundingly loud _thunk_, all the while taking off his shoes. "Dude. I say we order pizza." He made a face. "ASAP."

"Yeah, sounds awesome." Sam grinned. "Hey, but maybe we should go really healthy, y'know? Get whole wheat crust and low fat cheese?"

"Why don't we go really high fibre and spread ketchup on cardboard? _Pizza_, dammit! Get pizza!"

Sam laughed as Chris made his way into his bedroom. He once again picked up the cordless phone, dialling the number for the local pizzeria that he'd known by heart since the day he'd moved in to the house.

By the time he'd managed to order an extra-large pizza with peperoni, mushrooms, and hot peppers, Chris had flopped himself down into the overstuffed armchair next to the sofa; he'd wasted no time in changing into sweats and a Stanford t-shirt.

"Pizza's on its way."

"Thank god."

Sam hesitated for only a second before clearing his throat and saying, "Hey, uh…can I talk to you for a second?"

Chris raised his head and furrowed his brow, seeming to know right away that something was amiss. "Yeah, sure. What's up?"

Sam raised a hand and absently scratched at the back of his head, silently reminding himself that it was a nervous habit that _both_ he and his brother had inherited. "I just wanted to let you know, that uh…my brother's…gonna…be coming to stay here for a couple days."

At first Chris said absolutely nothing, his face uncharacteristically stoic.

And for a moment Sam actually had to fight to keep from wincing.

It dawned on him suddenly that it may have been a good idea to _build up_ to it, sugar-coat it just a tad. Since his conversation with Dean he'd been on edge and he hadn't really let himself worry about something as trivial as _tact_…and so he'd blurted it out instead, sounding a bit like an asshat.

Sam was fortunate enough to have many friends at school—people that he'd met in classes, in the various coffee shops, or while he himself worked tirelessly behind the counter of the campus bookstore—and out of all of those people, Chris was by far the one he valued the most. They had a lot in common, liked the same movies, the same music, and they were both _shockingly_ OCD when it came to cleanliness and order.

Chris also had a sense of humor that in the beginning had reminded Sam somewhat painfully of his brother.

Despite his childhood, Sam had never enjoyed lying. It never felt right to him, spinning stories and using fake IDs to gather information. He knew that it had been a necessary evil over the years he'd been hunting, it made perfect sense when one thought about it objectively. Often times when working jobs hunters found themselves investigating a death or _deaths_ and the only people who had the information those hunters needed to get the job done was police officers and other authority figures.

And how did a person get that information from those people?

By being a _fellow_ authority figure.

Hence the stash of fake IDs he kept hidden in an old cigar box in the bottom drawer of his dresser.

Sam had been taught to lie by two of the best in the game and he had always been good at it. Over the years he'd been helping his father and brother, he'd developed his own sets of aliases and covers, using his natural talents to spin tales and lead people into them by the hand. Made people _believe_ what he either wanted or needed them to.

Unfortunately, Chris and Jess had been no different.

He'd painted a picture for them…and they had believed it without much fuss.

They'd asked questions, as any normal person would when an eighteen year old shows up in California with no family and no real connections…but Sam had deflected them flawlessly.

_We just don't see eye to eye._

_We don't get along._

_We're too different._

He was being evasive, yes, but was also telling the truth. An abridged version, anyway.

Sam sighed and sat forward on the sofa. He rested his arms on his thighs and intertwined his fingers, clenching them into fists every few seconds in an effort to get rid of the tension he was feeling. "I'm sorry that I'm throwing this at you, man. I never thought this would happen, I haven't even spoken to him in a year."

"And now he's comin' here?"

"Yeah, I talked to him today. He's in Texas, should be here late tomorrow night."

"What time?"

"Around ten…maybe closer to eleven."

Chris sat still for a moment and then let out a long breath, raking a hand through his short brown hair.

Sam simply sat and waited, staying silent.

In the two years that he and Chris had been friends they had never before had any kind of real disagreement. They got along exceptionally well and had similar passion when it came to their lives and their education, both having fought against the constraints of family to get where they were. _Sam_ had fought against a controlling father and an over-protective but silent older brother, a life of hunting monsters, and getting torn up on a weekly basis. _Chris_ had fought against an entire family of teachers who, while proud that their son (their brother, their cousin, their nephew) had been awarded a Stanford scholarship, had been less than enthused when he'd decided to use said scholarship to work towards a law school acceptance.

Chris' life and upbringing had been normal, Sam's had not—even though the former didn't really know how _abnormal_ the latter's past truly was.

But they'd bonded anyway, the both of them having cut off communication with their closest family members, their best friends; an older brother for Sam…and an older sister for Chris.

If there was anyone who understood how much a visit from Dean could possibly mean, it was Chris Burnett.

The two eventually locked eyes and Chris, somewhat somberly, asked, "Is somethin' going on?"

_Is there something wrong_

_Has something happened?_

_Are you ok?_

Sam heard it all in the tone of his roommate's voice and he shook his head without hesitation, not wanting to cause any more upset. "Everything's fine, he's just stopping in to see me for a bit."

"You sure? 'Cause I gotta be honest, man, from what you've told me about him…" He wavered all of a sudden and furrowed his brow. "Does Jess know about this?"

"No, I haven't talked to her yet."

"What are you gonna tell her?"

"I don't even know yet." Sam copied Chris' action of just a moment before and raked a hand through his hair. "I know I don't wanna bring her into all this. Me and m'brother, we didn't exactly part on good terms, so…"

"Your dad coming , too?"

_God, I hope not._ "No, not as far as I know." After a second, Sam said, "Look, I'll understand if you wanna bail or if you want me and him to stay somewhere else. I don't really know how this is gonna go, so—"

Chris interrupted him with a shake of his head, "No, hey, this is your place as much as it is mine. I know that if Erin showed up tomorrow, you wouldn't go kickin' us out…so…_mi casa es _Dean's_…casa."_

Sam didn't really know what to say to that, so he settled for a nod and a grateful smile.

_END_


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **I'm happy to say that I think my muse is back for good! Thanks to everyone that read and reviewed the first chapter, it means so much that you guys have stuck with me after so long :) I hope you enjoy chapter 2. Cheers!

**Disclaimer: **Nope, still don't own them. I've been living with the disappointment for over 8 years, I guess I'm used to it by now...

Oh, and funny story-I watched the show last night and throughout the ENTIRE thing I thought I was watching the finale. At the end I sat there and was like "How can they END it like THAT?!" Then my brain started working again and I realized that the finale is next week. Kinda laughed at myself a bit...

* * *

_Bakersfield, California._

The familiar and comforting creak of hinges as he pushed open the driver's door instantly made him feel better, but he could barely hold in a groan as he climbed out of the car and took a quick look around the gas station's parking lot.

It was just before six o'clock and he'd been driving for almost fifteen hours straight—he was antsy, his back was sore, and his legs were cramping like a son of a bitch. The sore back and leg cramps were a product of hours and hours of driving…the angst was purely due to geography.

_Friggin' California._

How he was feeling was his own fault, really. He should've _known_ better, he should've _known_ to stay _out_ of California. Avoiding the Golden State shouldn't have been all that difficult, after all, it's not like it was in the middle of anything. Actually he'd spent the better part of the last year pretending that there was nothing but ocean beyond Nevada's border.

But then Sam had called…and despite how angry he was, how heartsick he'd been, Dean had known there'd been no other choice. The big brother inside of him may have dormant and _seriously_ pissed off, but it sure as hell wasn't dead.

And despite all of it—the relief at first hearing his brother's voice, the act of dropping everything and heading to California—there had been a very small part of him, way down deep inside, that had wanted to turn Sam away. For the shortest instance he'd wanted to tell the kid he was on his own, finally, just as he'd always wanted to be.

'_I'm not like dad, I'm not like you…I'm barely even a Winchester_'.

The words were two years old but they still tore at his insides just as horrifically as they had the night Sam had first said them.

Dean remembered that night well. It was the night that Sam had left them, damn near fighting his way out and leaving a damage path behind him ten miles wide.

The fight had been a ferocious one, _so_ ferocious in fact that Dean hadn't said a single word throughout the entire thing. He hadn't known what to say, what actions to take, that would have erased the fury and the sheer _hatred_ from the eyes of his two living relatives. He'd spent years as the barrier between the two of them, the referee that somehow found a way to put a stop to things before they got out of hand. But that night he'd been at a loss. And he'd hated himself for it ever since.

A furious John Winchester taking off, Dean assumed, to the closest bar…a fiercely determined and spiteful Sam packing his bag…and a silently devastated and heartbroken Dean, driving his little brother to the small town's bus station, all the while ignoring every one of his instincts that were screaming at him to just _fix it_.

He wouldn't have been able to fix it. No matter how much he'd wanted to…how much he'd _wished to_.

ACDC's _Shoot To Thrill _was playing in his head and he fought hard against a yawn, barely even thinking about it as he grabbed the nozzle from the gas pump and inserted it in behind the car's rear license plate.

The air was colder than he'd expected and he felt himself shiver slightly, leaning his weight back against the car and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. The yawn that had been building for so long finally escaped and his tired eyes started watering.

Four hours left.

Four hours until he and his baby crossed into Palo Alto and faced the one thing, the one person, he'd been trying his damnedest to avoid.

But as he'd always been able to Sam had snuck passed the defenses and ever since their conversation the day before, Dean had been able to think of little else. Memories were coming back quickly, and in some cases _harshly_—the last time the two of them had spared, each man leaving the other with impressive bruises and split lips that were worn with pride…an empty field and fireworks on the fourth of July…poker lessons, the Beatles, breakfast cereal, and bacon cheeseburgers from that little diner along the Colorado interstate.

They'd been a family back then. Not the estranged mess they were now.

Sammy was never further away from him than when Dean was in California.

The familiar guitar ringtone broke through the stillness and made him jump like an absolute sissy. He wasted no time in pulling the phone from the pocket of his jeans and one look at the call display had him kinda wishing he was dead.

_Dad._

He made a face—_goddammit_—and flipped the phone open, pressing it to his ear. He reminded himself that answering a cell phone that close to a gas pump was probably a bad idea, asking for trouble, but with the stress he was all of a sudden feeling, part of him almost _hoped_ he'd blow up.

"Hey dad."

"_Are you on your way?"_

Well, so much for pleasantries. "No…not yet."

"_Why not?"_

"Somethin' came up, might be a few more days."

John gave a telling sigh and he recognized it immediately—it was his dad's _'I don't have time for this crap'_ sigh and Dean raised his free hand and squeezed the bridge of his nose, as if the action would get rid of his newly formed headache. "_Dean, I need you here. I didn't want you goin' to Richardson in the first place—"_

"I know, dad."

"_I called Caleb and told him to start headin' this way. You're gonna do the same, y'hear me_?" The tone of his father's voice left little room for debate and Dean, somewhat out of character, chafed a bit at the unspoken order. _"From where you are it's an eight hour drive to St. Louis, you'll be here by tonight."_

Yeah, sure. Except Dean wasn't _in _Richardson.

And he wasn't a mere _eight hours_ from St. Louis…it was more like _twenty-seven_ hours.

He steeled himself as he was about to do something he'd never done, not once, in his twenty-four years of life. And only for his brother would he even consider it.

He was going to lie through his goddamn teeth…to his dad.

"Look, uh…I found a job on my way outta Texas and I—"

His dad interrupted him. _"Where and what is it?"_

"Denton, and haven't quite figured that out yet."

Another sigh. "_Dean."_

That gas pump clicked loudly as the tank finished filling and he looked down at it, saying, "Look I gotta go. I'll call you in a couple days and meet up with you when I can." And without waiting for a response Dean pulled the phone away from his ear and snapped it shut, letting out a long _whoosh_ of air he hadn't even known he'd been holding in.

And as he stood there, feeling somewhat dumbstruck, all he could think was…

_This friggin' blows._

He hadn't set eyes on the kid in two years and in true Sammy style he was already a tremendous pain in the ass.

It took him less than two minutes to cross the asphalt and head inside, handing over his cash and leaving with ten dollars change and bitter gas station coffee in a flimsy paper cup. His life may have been thrown into a slight chaos, but at least _that_ hadn't changed—coffee, either so thick it was like molasses or so weak it was like hot water with food coloring in it. One of the many joys of living on the road.

He was just about to round the car to the driver's side when his cell phone rang again, drawing the attention of the man standing at the next pump. Dean sent him a derisive smile, as if to say '_hey, how are ya',_ before pulling the phone back out of his pocket and checking the call display.

California area code.

_Sam._

He answered quickly, pressing the phone to his ear. "Yeah, Sam, what's up?"

"_Where are you?"_

Jesus Christ, was _no_ one into small-talk anymore?

It was a sad, sad day when Dean Winchester was considered the polite and well-mannered one.

He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice as he said, "Oh, I'm doin' great, Sammy, thanks—"

"_It's Sam."_

"—how 'bout you?"

Sam was having none of it. _"Dean, seriously, how far away are you?"_

"Couple hours." He sniffled in the evening air. "Stopped for gas in Bakersfield. Should be there 'round ten, maybe ten-thirty."

"_You sound exhausted."_

He muttered to himself, "You try drivin' for fifteen hours straight and see how you feel," then added in a louder voice, "I'm fine, I'll crash when I get there."

"_Ok, I'm gonna give you my address. You got a pen?"_

"Yeah, hang on a sec…" He set down his cup of coffee and reached in through the open passenger window. Popping open the glove box open with quick hands, he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and a pen, shoving the phone between his left ear and shoulder before spreading the paper out on the roof of the car. "Go ahead."

Dean copied the address down quickly, promising the obviously anxious kid that he'd call when he crossed into Palo Alto—_I'll call you, Samantha, Jesus…get a grip, huh?_

Sam had responded with a verbal equivalent of his bitch-face, saying, "_calling me Samantha, that's original."_

To which Dean had quickly responded with, _'hey, if the pink lacy push-up bra fits."_

Sam had promptly hung up on him.

Yeah, some things would _never _change. No matter how far apart they were, both geographically _and_ emotionally speaking…there were things that were just too far ingrained into their DNA.

Sam would always be a sensitive bitch and Dean would always tease him for it.

* * *

_9:54pm._

Sam took a quick glance at the clock as he nervously paced the living room, his hands stuffed into the front pocket of his oversized Stanford hoodie.

Dean had called a few minutes before to announce his and the Impala's arrival in Palo Alto, and Sam predicted that based on distance and the incredible amount of lead in his brother's foot the familiar car would be pulling up outside at any second.

He felt completely and utterly nauseous. Two years of thinking about that moment, dreading it, hoping for it, fearing it…and there he stood, not entirely sure he was ready to face it. When he'd first moved into his dorm room at the beginning of his first year, when he'd first moved into student housing with Chris, he'd constantly found himself wondering _'what would Dean say?'_.

What would his brother think of the neighborhood? The fact that studious little Sammy lived in between two very loud and boisterous party houses. The fact that the police showed up at the house on their left with lights flashing _at least_ three times a week because of noise complaints and brawls breaking out on the front lawn.

What would his brother think of the house? Cozy and warm enough, but slightly neglected with squeaky floorboards and a toilet that would run for a week after flushing it if you didn't take the lid off the tank and fiddle with the internal mechanisms.

What would his brother say about his roommate? Chris Burnett, the guy with as much personality as Dean himself had but was also studious, just like Sam. The guy who didn't believe in ghosts because he thought the concept to be too _new-age_, but completely believed in werewolves, simply because _that _concept was far too cool to ignore. The guy who played college level baseball and wore slippers when the weather got chilly.

What would his brother say about his girlfriend? Jessica Moore, the girl whose ultimate dream was to become a pediatrician. The girl with bouncing blonde curls that was addicted to coffee and would protect it to the point of violence…the girl that could kick his ass at xbox and then laugh hysterically about it for days.

What would his brother say about his _life_?

He looked at the clock again.

_9:56pm_

"Sam?"

The concerned voice of said roommate broke through the stillness of the living room and Sam turned, his eyes falling on Chris, who was leaning casually against the door-frame of his bedroom with his arms folded across his chest. Sam had heard the unspoken question in his friend's voice and nodded, "Yeah…I'm fine. Just nervous, I guess."

"Yeah, I hear you. I'm sure I'd be a basketcase, too, if it was me."

"What would _you_ do?"

"What would _I_ do?" Chris' eyes widened slightly at being asked such a question and after a moment, he shrugged his shoulders. "If Erin came here, I'd probably hug her and cry like a complete wussy." The two of them chuckled quietly, despite the fact that they both knew how true Chris' words were—that he _would_ do that. "But then…I don't know how acceptable that would be between brothers, so…"

"My brother _already _thinks I'm a wussy, so I'm sure it wouldn't surprise him."

Chris opened his mouth to respond when the sound of a very familiar engine and the subsequent draining of color from Sam's face made him fall silent.

Sam crossed the floor to the large window at the front of the house and drew aside the curtains, his eyes falling on the gleaming cherry-black Impala that was idling down at the curb. He tried to focus his eyes to get a glimpse of his brother in the darkness, but realized quickly that it was no use. After a second, he let the curtains fall back into place and turned towards Chris, sending him a telling nod.

He knew from experience that Dean wouldn't simply get out of the car and walk up to the door. He, Sam, would have to make the first move…

And so that's exactly what he did, taking a deep breath before pulling open the front door and stepping out onto the stoop—his hands still in the pocket of his hoodie, he was determined not to let Dean see them fidgeting.

There was no movement inside the car for at least a minute, the engine still idling loudly on the quiet street…but Sam knew that his brother was watching him, he could feel it. He couldn't help but think to himself _'your move, Dean'_ and stood his ground, feeling a tiny victory when the Impala finally fell silent and the driver's door was thrown open with a squawk of hinges.

Dean exited the car slowly and turned around even slower, resting his hands on the roof of the car and lacing his fingers together.

And for the first time in two long years the Winchester brothers locked eyes, and Sam felt several different emotions blast through his veins all at once. Relief, excitement, and above all else, _happiness_; happiness that Dean was _there_, that Dean had_ shown up_…because Sam didn't think for one second that the older man had _wanted_ to drop everything and make the drive. He wasn't that naïve.

He tried his best to get all of those emotions under control as he descended the stone steps down to the sidewalk, unable to resist pulling his left hand from his pocket and pressing it against the cold metal of the Impala.

The car had served as his home for most of his life and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't missed it. He wasn't at all surprised to see that the thirty-six year old car was just as pristine as the last time he'd seen it—there wasn't a hint of rust, the paint was luminous in the glow of the nearby streetlight, the upholstery practically untouched…his brother's _baby_.

"I missed this car."

The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them and he swallowed hard, waiting for some kind of cruel rejoinder from the still silent Dean that was standing across from him.

In fact, Dean hadn't moved a muscle. The only indication he gave that he'd even heard what Sam had said was the slight narrowing of his eyes.

After another minute of the two of them simply staring at each other, Dean pushed the driver's door closed and nodded his head towards the back seat. "Do me a favor, grab that bag."

Dean's voice was husky from tiredness and Sam, swallowing his embarrassment, retrieved the heavy duffle bag before pushing the back door closed gently. He wanted to ask Dean what exactly was _in _the duffle—guns? knives?—but held his tongue, judging from the bag's weight that it was full of nothing but clothing.

"I uh…set up the sofa for you. A pillow and blankets." Sam spoke quietly. "Figured you'd wanna get some sleep."

Dean simply nodded in acknowledgement and proceeded to pop the trunk.

For the shortest instant, Sam panicked that his brother was going into the car's well-hidden weapons locker—the mere idea of having to explain shotguns and silver bullets to Chris increased his nausea tenfold. But Dean avoided the wooden plank, instead grabbing a second bag and throwing the strap carefully over his shoulder.

It was Dean's laptop, Sam recognized it immediately.

Despite the emotional charge in the air, how nervous he was and how completely silent Dean was…he couldn't help but furrow his brow and say, "Wait, you keep your _laptop_ in the _trunk_?"

His tone of voice said it all-a laptop was delicate, expensive, _important_. In the trunk it could roll around and smack into things. It was a true travesty...

Dean stopped in his tracks and simply stared at him, a snort escaping a few seconds later. "Dude," he said, the corner of his mouth quirking cheekily, "you just showed your geek…and it smells like loser."

Sam's shoulders dropped as Dean sauntered past him, not bothering to wait for an invitation before heading up the stairs. Sam fell into step behind him and held his breath when Dean finally crossed the small home's doorstep.

Chris was now standing in the living room—thankfully deciding _against_ wearing his slippers— and the two of them exchanged a manly nod as Dean took a quick look around, taking in his new surroundings.

Sam cleared his throat to get his brother's attention and nodded to Chris. "Dean…uh…this is my roommate, Chris."

Chris took a step forward and extended his hand politely, saying, "Good to meet you."

Dean muttered a surprisingly normal sounding, "Yeah, man, you too.". He shook Chris' hand before heading over towards the couch and setting his computer bag down on the coffee table.

It struck Sam at that moment how bizarre the scene before him was—_Dean_, standing in his dimly lit living room, shedding his leather jacket and draping it over the arm of the couch. The Impala parked down at the curb. It was almost surreal.

Seeming intent to clear the awkwardness from the air, Chris cleared his throat and said, "So Sam mentioned you were in Texas?"

Sam was expecting some sort of brush off, some kind of rebuke that had an undercurrent of _mind your own damn business_, but once again his brother surprised him. Dean sat himself down on the sofa and rested his arms on his knees, saying, "Yeah, Richardson. Had a job I had to take care of."

"Oh, what kind of work do you do?"

It was like Sam's very worst nightmare, times a thousand.

The two brothers locked eyes for a second time and they were once again talking without talking—Sam silently begging his brother to keep the secret, to just be _normal_ for once in their lives…and Dean, a look of complete disdain on his face, like he would like _nothing more_ than to drop reality on Sam's clueless friend like a ton of bricks.

After a moment of heated silence, a somewhat unkind smile lifted the corners of Dean's mouth and he said, "I'm kind of a jack of all trades. Odd jobs. Nothing too…" he looked at Sam again, "…_abnormal."_

Sam had the good sense to look and feel sheepish.

Meanwhile, poor Chris was completely oblivious to the underlying tension. "Interesting life, living on the road. Bet you meet all kinds of people."

That smile was still on Dean's face and he said, "Well, what can I say—I'm a people person."

And it was right then that Sam realized that Dean's patience, and by proxy, his courtesy, were completely worn out. He spoke up quickly, "I put some towels in the bathroom in case you wanted to have a shower, Dean."

The older Winchester seemed to recognize Sam's interruption for what it was and shook his head. "Thanks but no thanks." He motioned to the pile of pillows and blankets, spares from both Chris _and_ Sam's rooms. "It's been a long day, I just wanna crash."

Chris spoke up and said, "Well, then, I'm gonna turn in. Got practice in the morning," he sent Sam an encouraging smile and then looked to Dean, "It was good meetin' you, Dean. You need anything, don't hesitate."

Dean looked up, his eyes somewhat flat and unblinking. Sam recognized the look instantly; he was sizing Chris up in that alpha-male kind of way… the way that Sam had seen so many times over the years. It set him on edge and he cleared his throat pointedly. "Yeah," Dean said, nodding, "Yeah, thanks."

As soon as Chris' bedroom door shut Sam let out an incredibly long breath, the relief at having survived the encounter enough to almost make his knees buckle.

"So you haven't told that kid anything, have you?"

Dean's semi-quiet words startled him and he couldn't help but frown slightly.

"What was I gonna tell him, Dean? The truth?" Sam let out a light snort. "He doesn't _need_ to know."

"He doesn't?"

"It's not my life anymore."

Dean's entire face deadened at the not-so-subtle put-down of his profession and Sam decided not to continue the conversation, not to rise to the fight, unable to stomach the thought of an argument so soon after their reunion. A fight wasn't something they needed at ten-thirty at night, especially when they were both tired and their tempers were on shorter fuses than normal.

They had plenty of time to have that fight, what, with Dean staying at the house.

It was inevitable, unavoidable. There was two years of strain and ignored phone calls to work through, after all.

Raking a hand through his hair, Sam pointed to the bathroom door just off the living room. "The bathroom's there, light switch is just inside the door. My stuff is on the second shelf of the medicine cabinet, so if you need anything, just help yourself."

"Thanks."

"There's bottled water in the fridge. Coffee and filters are in the cupboard above the sink, just in case you get up before we do." He pointed to the end table beside the sofa. "There's also an outlet down near the floor, right there, if you wanna charge your laptop or your phone."

Dean nodded, listening to Sam's instructions with interest. After a moment he said, "Pretty sweet set up you've got here, Sammy."

"It's _Sam_."

"Yeah, that's right," he shook his head, breathing out a bitter laugh. "I forgot."

"Dean—"

"All grown up now, huh? _Sam_, all-American ivy leaguer."

Once again trying to head an argument off at the pass, Sam let out a small nervous laugh, doing what he could to push his brother's most recent comment out of his mind. "How about this, huh? Ever think this would happen? You, coming here?"

"No." Dean answered honestly, reaching down and starting to untie his boots.

"No, me either."

It truly _was_ a brutal realization…what _exactly_ the two years apart had done to their relationship, a relationship that Sam himself had once thought to be indestructible.

Sam, the all-American ivy-leaguer.

And Dean, the hunter, still daddy's perfect little soldier.

They were living proof that _nothing_ was indestructible, not really.

Maybe Dean was irritable and argumentative, maybe he was bitter and a tad hostile…and hell, maybe Sam was all of those things, too.

But Dean had _shown up._

And maybe, right then? That was the most important thing.

_END_


End file.
